Scarlet Distillation
by etceterae
Summary: They tell lies and keep secrets. Gin and Vermouth survive on sick obsessions, keeping high off each other's poisonous intentions. Dark, manipulative. //Another Red Shot. Vermouth isn't the only one keeping secrets and tabs. Gin and Absinthe talk.
1. A Red Intruder

**Fandom:** Detective Conan/Case Closed

**Disclaimer:** Gin, Vermouth, Vodka, and "Boss" all belong to Gosho Aoyama. Well, _everybody_ here belongs to him, except for Scotch, Cognac, and Absinthe, who are mine.

**Story** **Title: **Scarlet Distillation

**Chapter Title: **A Red Intruder

**Notes: **This part is not extremely relevant to the plot actions, but very relevant to setting things up and giving an overview of Gin's thoughts.

**Chapter Summary: **Vermouth has taken a habit to following Gin on his hits. After they kill a target in an abandoned alley, Gin gets distracted by something that's happened to her.

**Chapter Quote: **"You seem in a terrible rush to get away."

* * *

"Group Two to One. Target entering hotel. Possibly ten minutes before he gets to his room. Over."

Scotch's words came over the car's walkie-talkie in soft, scratchy waves, his voice crackling with electricity. Gin knew the operative was likely sitting in a cafe a few blocks in the distance, typing innocently away at his laptop while looking into a high-grade scope disguised as a webcam. They'd recieved a tip-off before to where a politician had gone to hide from blackmailers enquiring about his embezzled funds. His chosen hotel was nondescript, though rather old and run-down looking, and situated in a poorer area of town. There would easily be no witnesses, and, Gin thought privately, Vermouth was a better eye for looking out for passerby than Vodka was. It had irritated him when she insisted on joining the hit, but he didn't want the repurcussions of refusing. The best he could do was to relegate her in the back seat and control himself around her.

He crushed his cigarette on the Porsche's coin tray, bitter smoke wafting from the stub. From beside him, Vermouth looked distastefully at the soft mound of glowing ashes, the tip of her nose wrinkling as she flipped through their hit file. "You've gone through an entire pack already," she muttered. "I don't understand why you're not already dead from the tar."

"Everybody has their vices," said Gin dismissively, tucking his Beretta where it could be easily reached. "Mine is smoking. Yours is fucking with people's minds. We're even."

"So _cold_, Gin," said Vermouth with a false air of disappointment, and she tossed the hit file into Gin's lap. "Are you going to push me in the back again?"

Even though they were cloaked in a building's shadow, Gin could hear the feral grin in her voice, and he smirked. "I don't care whether you're the boss's favorite or not. This isn't your damn hit." The last four admittedly hadn't been hers either, but she had insisted on going with him. He'd been faintly confused at first (never showing it, of course - he always hid himself from Vermouth's piercing eyes), but the feeling had now morphed into annoyance at her presence and suspicion as to what she wanted. She had never shown such interest in his actions before, relying only on the occaisional scathing retorts and taunting remarks that they flung at each other whenever their paths happened to cross. Now she nearly seemed to be tracking him, though she said with her usual uncaring tone that his hits were more interesting to follow.

The atmosphere between them, Gin noted, had slighty shifted within the past few weeks. It was a subtle change in the air - a tinge of something foreign whenever they talked, and a touch of something different whenever they moved. Their cutting words were the same, and their actions hadn't changed, but the meaning behind them seemed to have altered. Gin snapped his weapons case shut, carefully balancing the noise so it wouldn't betray his conflicted emotions. He'd deal with the strange inconsistencies later and despise her now.

Vermouth didn't seem to notice the whiteness of his hands against his suit. "It doesn't matter who kills him, as long as he's dead," she said, shrugging. She had pulled out a Luger and was examining it with bare interest, her fingers trailing the length of the barrel. "And we all know that I'm a better shot than you are."

"You don't need to be a good shot when it's point-blank," noted Gin, nerve edging into his voice. _Execution_, the file had stated in small black print. _Lure him into a secluded area - industrial side of the nearby abandoned garage ideal - with a promise of a compromise if he gives up half the funds he stole from us, and a disk containing the needed governement files. Suggestion: fire a hollow point. _Gin had grinned to himself when he saw the ending note. Hollows. They were particularly bloody, and Gin always had an interest in them. Lead-tipped bullets sometimes bothered him; Vodka always said they were cleaner and thus more efficient, but Gin saw no point in that. Death was supposed to be messy, not clean and clinical. He was always bothered when he shot at somebody, certain that they were dead, but seeing nothing to confirm it except for the momentary shock in their eyes before they slumped over. It merely looked as if they were stunned, and Gin felt that it was much too anticlimactic - a blow and a fall. With hollow points, death would be considerably more graphic, more final - completely _irreversible_. A crack and then the hard sound of metal tearing through flesh and bone. The shock at the contact, the searing pain of the bullet expanding inside. An explosion of blood at the base of the skull, blossoming scarlet in the pit of the stomach - Gin inhaled sharply, his fingers running rapidly along the base of his Beretta. It wasn't good to get so excited before a hit. Too much adrenaline...he glanced unconsciously at Vermouth, who was selecting a hollow bullet for her Luger.

"Group Two to One," crackled the walkie-talkie, cutting off Gin's thoughts. "He's in his room. I can see his shadow against the curtains. East wing, sixth floor, rightmost room. Over."

"Group One to Two," said Vermouth smoothly, clicking the gun action open. She purred satisfactorily, and Gin's heart rate flared up again in his annoyance at the sound. Once this was over, he'd lock himself up in his room and get away from her soft, constant sounds. "You're making the call in five minutes, then? Over."

There was a strained pause at the other end before the walkie-talkie crackled again. "Group Two to One," said Scotch, sounding confused. "Confirmed. I was..._unaware_ of your presence, Vermouth. Over."

Vermouth snapped in the hollow bullets and pulled the action. There were a few clicks as the cartridges were put in gear. "Group Two to One. You'd better get used to it," she said, smirking triumphantly. "Over."

* * *

Gin leaned against a concrete beam, waiting.

The abandoned garage was dark and dank, a few scattered dead leaves strewn across the metal rails by the side. A few towed cars were parked in random spots, the windshields broken and the leather seats slashed open by eager looters. It was old and kept in the greeny scent of rainwater that had stagnated over the months. Gin could smell the overpowering dust and dirt pervading the area. It smelled like a coffin, he noted absently. Even though he'd finished a countless amount of hits over the years, he'd only ever come up close to a coffin once. He was a young recruit in the Black Organization back then, and had passed by a public funeral for a politician that'd been shot in the head. It had undoubtedly been Cognac's work - quick and crisp, and without fail, always from behind. Cognac had never liked looking his hits in the face.

"Pisses the hell out of me when they're still staring at me after they're dead," he had told Gin roughly. "I mean, really. They're fucking dead. What else do they want from me?"

Faintly curious to see the proceedings, Gin had snuck into the line passing by the dead politician's casket. The man's head was swathed with thick cotton, and from a distance he looked like some gruesome mannequin the masses had come to worship. He could have been anybody with the white gauze mask and the standard navy suit. Gin had been foolishly eager to see the corpse up close, but when he did, he'd felt sorely disappointed. It wasn't death, Gin had thought. The man was really asleep. There seemed to be no true confirmation that the man wasn't breathing and his heart wasn't beating. Everything looked too neat and arranged - the stiching on the cotton mask was perfectly aligned and the man's hands were folded carefully over his immaculate clothes.

It all looked wrong.

Gin had always associated death with extreme messes, vomit soaking through the carpet, white froth seeping out of a hanged man's blue mouth, the heady smell of coppery blood thickening the air. As he passed the display, he found himself taking a breath. Dirt and dust - that was what the coffin and dead man smelled like. Almost the same as a forgotten box of furniture in the attic. Too useless.

Death should be dirtier. The cleanliness made it fake.

Footsteps echoed from the shadows, and Gin looked up. A man was walking hesitatingly towards the center of the garage, clutching a package and a CD. Gin smirked. Fool. He was setting himself up to be murdered. Gin wasn't sure exactly what Scotch might have told the politician over the phone, but he knew exactly how persuasive the man could be when he wasn't busy being an asshole. He closed his fingers over his Beretta. This would be exceptionally easy.

Vermouth touched his shoulder from behind the beam. _All clear._

"Takada," said Gin, his voice echoing against the hard concrete. The man flinched, and turned toward the source of Gin's voice. Gin licked his lips in anticipation. He could feel the fear emanating from the dark, and his eyes narrowed, waiting. "I see you have our information."

"All here," said Takada, his voice cracking slightly. He sounded hoarse, as if he hadn't drunk or slept in days. Not surprising, considering the man's fragile situation, and the enormous hole he had dug for himself when he had tried to trick what he thought was only a small crime group looking for a little government information in exchange for money. Well, thought Gin privately, we'll solve that little problem. "I'll going to - I'll just set the things on the ground and - and go," he said, tremulous. Gin didn't need the edge of light from the entrance to know that their target's hands were shaking.

He was about to utter a reply when Vermouth startled him into silence. "Why, you'll just leave us?" she said, her voice chillingly lilting. It pierced through the thick air and Gin could feel it slice over his skin, even though he wasn't being addressed. He glanced back forwards. Takada had froze, unaware a second person had been there. "Setting the things and running away?" Vermouth continued, an extra edge to her voice.

Takada blanched, and involuntarily took a step back. "I kept up my end of the deal."

"Certainly," said Vermouth, and Gin felt the fabric of her coat slide over the back of his bare hand. She was moving forward, carefully adjusting her voice so it seemed as if she hadn't moved, letting the echoes throw her words at the target. "You'll keep your promises, just like you did before," she said with a terrifyingly calm voice, and Gin thought he could almost feel her breath in the words whisper over his ear. _Interesting_, thought Gin, as he lifted the Beretta from his coat. _I wonder who taught her the echoing trick_. It was working exceptionally well, he grudgingly admitted; if he hadn't felt the brush of her coat against him, he might have assumed that Vermouth was still leaning against the concrete beam, keeping a lookout behind them. Gin scoffed inwardly at his foolishness.

Vermouth would never let herself be pushed to the back.

And now she was taking charge in such a way that Gin could do nothing but wait back for her and take her position. She'd even rubbed the fact triumphantly in his face, what with the subtle slip of her coat, taunting the fact that she'd stolen his hit. Stepping forward and speaking now would be an idiotic thing to do, but he thought of something better and carefully clicked his Beretta. To Takada, it must have seemed like a click of a case, a relatively safe ten metres away.

"It was a mistake!" said Takada, trembling violently. Lucky for Gin, he hadn't let go of the CD case, and his shaking hands was making the surface of the disk glint and catch the sun. taking care not to make a sound, Gin raised his Beretta, forcing himself to stay still as Takada blubbered on. "But I've got everything here, no issues, no tricks -"

"No bombs?" said Vermouth dangerously. "We've recieved them in the past, you know, by people smarter than you expecting to kill us all, but it was foolish of them. They got their due in the end. And you seem in a terrible rush to go away, my darling, and I haven't even given you my little reward yet."

Gin bit his lip, steadying himself. From her voice, Vermouth sounded like she had never left, and could have been saying the same things to him, whispering to him in that maddeningly superior way of hers. _You seem in a terrible rush to go away._ Her words were duplicated, in a ghost by the beam and in a killer by the hit. She was probably beyond excitement now, taunting them both at the same time. _Brilliance, Vermouth_, thought Gin sardonically, catching the fading echoes of her voice. _Fuck you too_.

"There's - I swear there's no bombs!" insisted Takada. He sounded hesitant and confused. "And what do you mean about...?"

"It's just a gift from me to you," she said, and Gin saw her reach slowly toward her Luger.

_Now, _thought Gin, and fired a shot that blasted past Vermouth's shoulder and straight through Takada's head.

The man staggered with the force and fell back, an torrent of blood and skin exploding from his neck. There was enough light for Gin to see the rush of scarlet bleeding away from the corpse, still warm, and a surge of pleasure rose within him as he watched the body twitch and writhe before slowing down into a skewed position, the head half-gone and the organs inside raw and exposed. The coppery smell of blood burst into the air, and Gin closed his eyes. This was death. The blood, raw and heady, was drowning him in pools of red until he thought he'd choke on the thick smell. He tucked his Beretta inside his coat, adrenaline surging up in him again as he gazed at the dead man. There was the finality of not even having a face left and having all the blood drained from the empty shell of a bruised body.

Perfect.

"You took him from me," said Vermouth with a forced whine, breaking the silence that had lapsed over them as they had watched the man die. "And I was having such fun -"

"Dragging it out?" finished Gin coldly. "You do enjoy playing with your food."

"I like seeing the fear in their eyes," said Vermouth, her voice dropping, and Gin realized that she was truly standing next to him now. "An insane gleam of desperation. That raw hunger to live. And it's all the more powerful when you know that you can starve them of it." She wiped something off her face, looking extremely irritated. "You got blood on my face."

He had. There were little streaks of scarlet bursting from the hollow of her cheek, spread across her forehead and eyelids. It stood out in sharp relief against her pale features, and Gin found himself staring at the odd beauty of it. Blood. Blood, and Vermouth. The stench of the place flooded his senses, and his heart began to race with the heat of the assasination. He'd stated many times that he'd kill her if she wasn't in the Black Organization, and the sight of blood on her was growing to tempting for him to bear. She could've looked dead if he imagined it well enough, another spoiled mannequin back inside the coffin, hands folded neatly and a tatoo of scarlet spread over her bare, fragile skin. It would only take a flick of the wrist, a sharp knife - "Shit," he muttered, tearing himself away from her questioning expression and walking stormily back to the Porsche. "Clean your damn face up," he shot over his shoulder, his voice echoing down the cold concrete.

_Blood and Vermouth_, he considered, waiting. The thought was a provocative, if not dangerous one, but he couldn't get the sight of her bloodied skin out of his mind. The walkie-talkie crackled and beeped, waiting for a reply, but Gin was lost in his thoughts, an image of an explosion of scarlet burned into his eyes.

A minute later, he began to laugh, the feral sound trapped by the walls.

* * *

_**A/N:** Normally when I write, I try to actually go and experience what the person is feeling before I go and write it. For this fanfic, however...I suppose you may guess that I didn't murder somebody in a back alley and then laugh manically in my car. 8D No method writing for this one, I'm afraid._

_This chapter mainly sets up the scene. The next chapters are full of deception, manipulation, and confusion. Can't wait to write it - angsty-ness is a new department for me, and while I won't be pulling out all the emo spigots, I'll still be pouring some hard shots in here. Hope you like it, and thanks for reading! _


	2. A Shot of Green

**Fandom:** Detective Conan/Case Closed

**Disclaimer:** Gin, Vermouth, Vodka, and "Boss" all belong to Gosho Aoyama. Well, _everybody_ here belongs to him, except for Scotch, Cognac, and Absinthe (well, I don't know about the greenie), who are mine.

**Story** **Title: **Scarlet Distillation

**Chapter Title: **A Shot of Green

**Notes: **I always, oddly, regarded Absinthe as being more of a female name, but it was either this or "Everclear", which I doubt would have sounded nearly as serious. XD

**Chapter Summary: **Absinthe and Vermouth play games with each other. It's all about the subtext, and figuring out what they're hinting at and playing with.

**Chapter Quote: **"You say that as if you know the extent of things for me."

* * *

Absinthe looked different every time.

Today he was dressed in a standard dark suit, a silver tie clutched at his pale throat. A few dark bangs fell into his hooded eyes, piercing green, and he wore a carefully bored expression on his face as he sipped from a martini. There was little about him that particularly stood out; his features were soft in the mouth and angular in the jaw, his cut of hair was normal and uninteresting, and he didn't look as if he were the boss of the Black Organization.

But Vermouth knew it was him, if not for the strange green of his eyes, then for the particularly maddening drink he had ordered.

She slid into the seat across and placed hit file on the table. Absinthe raised his eyebrow when he recognized the lettering by its tab. "You followed him again," he said, his voice dark and raspy like one of a smoker's. He sounded like Gin today, and Vermouth reined back the hint of a glare that threatened to break past her gaze. He was taunting her again. The smoker's voice, the drink in his hand, and the white curve of his lip. He wasn't outwardly trying to look like his operative, but had added a few notes of resemblance here and there, a few hints by his hand and throat...enough to catch her eye - not nearly enough to make her point it out without throwing suspicions on herself as to why she had even noticed these things.

Bastard.

Vermouth smirked, crossing her legs. "Naturally. It's fun to see him when he's annoyed with me."

"Hmm," said Absinthe dryly. "Then you understand my..._behaviors_."

"I don't care," she said, putting on a dismissive air. "Whatever you're driving at, it's quite childish."

"So you claim," said Absinthe, and ordered another martini. "How did this one go?"

Vermouth clasped her hands in her lap, donning a carefully bored expression. "It was uninteresting. I was about to get him when your little operative stole him away from me." She recalled her surprise when the bullet had shot past her, barely grazing her shoulder. She had to revise her opinion that Gin wasn't a particularly good shot. The bullet had come a little more close than necessary, and he probably knew that.

"Careful, Vermouth. You might be starting things you can't finish."

She smiled venemously. "You say that as if you know the extent of things for me."

Absinthe looked at her from over the gold rim of his martini glass. "I know enough."

"And so?" she pushed, feeling unusually forward today. Perhaps it was the afterglow of the kill. Even though she hadn't managed to pull the trigger...she remembered the skew of the man's head, unnatural and bent aside. More specifically, though, she remembered Gin's manic, almost delighted expression and the sudden darkness that had crossed his features when he looked at her. Something had changed in an instant, and there had been a strange glint in Gin's eyes. Fury, perhaps, but more likely murderous intent. Extreme bloodlust. It would have explained his odd behavior afterwards, and the strange comment he had made to her. "Does it make you jealous?"

He scoffed at her. "Would you even expect a partially truthful answer from me? If I said yes, it'd be a lie, and if I said no, it'd be a lie. Either way, if you're not careful..." He lazily drew a cigarette from his pouch, eyeing her with faint interest. "You'd end up dead."

He'd dodged the question yet again, noted Vermouth. "You wouldn't kill me."

"You irritate me enough to do so, my little favorite," he smirked. "Sometimes when I look at you, I'd like nothing better than for you to be dead. A little slash at the neck. Blood down your throat. And then," he continued softly, "I'd rid myself from you."

"But you can't."

"I will."

"You still need me."

"Not for forever."

"But for long enough," said Vermouth, leaning back, cat-like, in her chair. Across from her, Absinthe smirked and drew a long breath of smoke. "It doesn't matter to me either way."

"Oh?" said Absinthe, a skeptically curious expression upon his face. "So it doesn't matter if I drop you or maybe...even pull a hit on you?"

Gin and Absinthe. Both had threatened to kill her, the former always with a bit more intent than the latter, the latter always with a bit more of a sadistic smile than the former. Despite the boss's claims that he hated her...Vermouth shifted in her chair. She was a woman, after all, and she noticed certain things that even Absinthe couldn't hide with all his prowress and fastidiousness. Of course, with him, emotions always took a strange turn, so she had no idea how he'd express himself on matters. Either way, she knew.

"Of course not."

A flash of anger seemed to corss his eyes, but then Absinthe laughed. "You're playing with fires beyond your control. What with your actions on Kano and Takemura, you're nearly begging for danger."

"About that," said Vermouth, measuring her tones carefully. "Pull a hit on those two."

Absinthe seemed mildly surprised. "What interest do you have in them?"

"My own."

"Obviously not. You have no connection at all."

"I have more connections to them than you might think, and I'm only asking you to pull a hit on them because..." She paused, and recrossed her legs. "I have information that they might attack us, and even though they're easily removed, they still might prove a hindrance and may get in the way of some bigger goal that you're always pushing at."

"Thank you for the lie. It was very gracious of you."

Vermouth smiled, but felt bitter inside. Even her best poker face was barely enough to cover her feelings. At least he probably didn't suspect the real reason she wanted Kano and Takemura dead. "And I have a second request."

"Pushing your luck, aren't you?' said Absinthe, leaning back on his chair and spreading his arms. "Well, go on."

"Don't give Gin the case. But if he asks for it...grant it to him."

There was a silence as Absinthe processed this, and several emotions flashed across his piercing green gaze. Confusion, at first, then a hint of anger, and possibly a gleam of triumph (but no, thought Vermouth, that wouldn't have made any sense for him to feel that way), before he settled on a neutral stare. "Fine. I must say, though, that you're really begging for danger. Not that this profession beckons anything else, but _really_, Vermouth, your actions have changed. You're heading somewhere darker than I thought you would."

Vermouth thanked the waiter for her drink - a simple sake. Hot, though, and it burned a heavy trail down her throat. "Danger? Sano and Takemura are mere amateurs - if well-equipped ones."

Absinthe grinned cruelly, his eyes darkening. "I wasn't referring to them."

Vermouth shrugged the suggestion off, nearly surprised by the lack of emotions she felt at the comment. Years earlier, she might have thought about it for days, a panic that she wouldn't admit to having infecting her. But now, she wasn't sure whether she had learned to not take Absinthe's threats seriously or if she simply didn't care anymore. It was an oddly terrifying thought, and she shivered inside, savoring her own hints of fear. "I like the risk. And obviously, so do you. I _am_ still alive, after all. It's...proof enough."

"Proof for what?"

"Certain things." She took the martini from his hands, and smiled when he raised an eyebrow at her. "A secret makes a woman a woman."

Absinthe, in turn, took her sake and trailed the rim of the porcelain cup with his finger as he gave her what could almost be regarded as a lewd gaze. "Again, with that phrase. So dismissive, Vermouth. You never really did have much deference to your superiors. You interest me."

"And I intend for things to stay that way."

"You'd never know if I change my mind. Your behavior of late has been rather..._vexing_."

He was obviously referring to her exploits with Gin, and she tried to shrug it off. Something, however, dug uncomfortably at her and she wondered if this would be a battle to back off from. But the thought was a fleeting one, and was met by challenge. "Well," she said coyly, "why don't you do something about it, then, if it bothers you so much?"

Absinthe laughed cruelly, the smoke in his voice grating in waves. "Perhaps I will," he said in feral tones, "Perhaps I will."

* * *

_**A/N:** Absinthe's fun to write. I hope you enjoyed this chappie. Next up are lots of twists, so I hope you like!  
_


	3. The First Glass

**Fandom:** Detective Conan/Case Closed

**Disclaimer:** Gin, Vermouth, Vodka, and "Boss" all belong to Gosho Aoyama. Well, _everybody_ here belongs to him, except for Scotch, Cognac, and Absinthe (well, I don't know about the greenie), who are mine.

**Story** **Title: **Scarlet Distillation

**Chapter Title: **The First Glass

**Notes: **I love my Gin.

**Chapter Summary: **Gin learns something interesting from Vodka.

**Chapter Quote: **What game was she playing so that she couldn't have told him forthright?

* * *

Gin shut his suitcase, a tinge of irritation glowing at his temple. His file was gone. Vermouth, he thought. She took it for some reason.

He leaned back in his chair, curled up in the comfort of his own apartment. The television hummed in front of him, and he watched the screen absently. Takada's body had been found, he noted, and the police had discovered no evidence that could lead to the killer aside from a hollow point. It was well known that the politician was involved in shady dealings, so perhaps it was simply an exchange gone wrong, the reporter concluded. The news shifted to the weather reports, and Gin poured himself a drink of sake to warm himself up.

He couldn't concentrate as the weatherman pointed to diagrams of clouds and rain. His thoughts were tapidly fading to another scene. Back at the abandoned garage. A bloody explosion. Vermouth. He shifted in his chair, annoyance growing. It was beyond obvious that the boss's favorite wanted something from him. Most likely, all she was reveling in his irritation at her. She always did like to see people squirm.

He sipped at the sake, the chill in his bones melting away. His thoughts shifted again to the echo of her voice. He touched his ear with the white tip of his finger, remembering the brush of her breath over his skin. A whisper, a threat, a taunt. He hated it, how she could only show up momentarily and he'd be bothered about it all day. She knew she did this to him, thought Gin darkly, and she abused it at her will. That vexing tilt of her smile, the sardonic tone in her voice, and the malicious gleam in her eye - intent, and strange ones that Gin hated himself for obsessing over. The porcelain cup trembled in his hands, but he caught himself and carefully set it down on his table.

Control, thought Gin angrily. I'm fucking losing it around her.

The phone rang, disturbing him, and a yellow glow on the mini-screen told him that it was Vodka. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Aniki. Did something happen today?"

Gin paused, calculating. "Obviously, something must have happened to you for you to be asking me that question when you know that right now, I have no injuries since you saw me an hour ago, perfectly fine."

"I - well, yes. Your file was slipped by my door."

Vermouth, thought Gin coldly. "Then kindly deliver it to headquarters for me, if it was left with you. Is there a problem?"

"You didn't leave it there?"

"I would have no reason to. It was most likely somebody else." He paused, searching his memory. "Scotch must have done it, since I gave it to him after the hit so he could finish his part of the write-up," lied Gin.

"But why would he give it to me?"

Gin had a vague idea why Vermouth would have done such a thing. It would be so that this precise conversation would transpire, and if Vermouth wanted him to be talking to Vodka, she either wanted him to be distracted or to learn something. Likely the latter, since there was little chance something would pass by unnoticed by him. Gin turned around in his chair, examining his apartment carefully. Yes, he was certain now, and he smirked. She'd made it extremely obvious that he was to talk to Vodka, and she knew that he'd easily look through, at least, this particular action. What game was she playing so that she couldn't have told him forthright? "Doesn't matter anymore. Look, have you heard anything around lately?"

"Not particularly," said Vodka, a tone of surprise in his voice. "Like what?"

"New operatives, maybe, or new hits...changes, Vodka - things that are different now," mused Gin, picking up his cup of sake.

"There hasn't been much change. Cognac got promoted again, though - he finished this really difficult case way in Kyoto."

"Yes, I heard about that. Something that isn't so obvious," said Gin, a hint of testiness seeping into his words. "Nothing major."

"There's a new hit processing," offered Vodka. "Scotch told me about it, since he has to work out the technical details before it gets finalized, and it made me think of you since you two have been working together recently. He even said that you might be interested in it."

"Who's it on?"

"Two computer designers named Sano and Takemura."

Gin carefully set down his sake. Those two. Vermouth had mentioned them a couple of times, passing comments about how childish and silly they were, or something to the effect that they wanted revenge. She was interested in them, he could tell, since she'd mentioned them more than once, and there had been an odd expression that would flit across her features when she did. Past grudges, possibly? Gin sighed. "Is it an open hit?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Interesting. Scotch was right about me. Incidentally, did you ask him why he thought I might want to take it up?"

"Yeah," said Vodka, sounding surprised.

A feral smile began to grow on Gin's face, and he poured himself another drink. "And what did he say?"

Vodka sounded uncomfortable. "Well," he began slowly, "he said that it would definitely be your kind of thing."

"Oh really? But we haven't talked enough for him to ascertain my preferences."

"Somebody else suggested that you'd like it."

Closer, thought Gin triumphantly, downing his sake. His heart began to throb faster as he zoned in on his target. "And who was that?"

There was a pause before Vodka answered, and when he did, his voice dropped low with hesitancy. "It was Vermouth."

* * *

_**A/N:** Reviews are appreciated. I hope you liked!__  
_


	4. Another Red Shot

**Fandom:** Detective Conan/Case Closed

**Disclaimer:** Gin, Vermouth, Vodka, and "Boss" all belong to Gosho Aoyama. Well, _everybody_ here belongs to him, except for Scotch, Cognac, and Absinthe (well, I don't know about the greenie), who are mine.

**Story** **Title: **Scarlet Distillation

**Chapter Title: **Another Red Shot

**Notes: **Gin pwns your ass.

**Chapter Summary: **Vermouth isn't the only one keeping secrets and tabs. Gin and Absinthe talk.

**Chapter Quote: **"Vermouth came calling. Asked a rather interesting favor of me."

* * *

A shudder passed through him when he heard those words. So she'd actually done it. He licked his lips, tasting victory, however small it was now. It would get bigger soon. He thanked Vodka for the tidbit of information and hung up the phone, looking contemplatively out the window. The sun was setting now, spilling dark red over his sheets and pale skin. The bare reflection of his face rested in the window, tinted scarlet.

He thought of Vermouth at the abandoned garage again. The casual slide of her gaze, the pattern of blood across her cheek. It was temptation, and he'd even wavered at the tree to pluck the apple. Dangerous. He didn't know what was happening to him. Thoughts of the woman - the woman, dead - kept running through his mind.

The phone rang again.

This time, the miniscreen was green.

Gin stared at it for a moment before he snatched it and answered. "Boss."

"Agent Gin," said a crackling voice, marred by disguise technology, "I was given a mild surprise today."

Gin's heart began to race, though he wouldn't have admitted it. He leaned forward in his chair. "What happened?"

"Vermouth came calling. Asked a rather interesting favor of me."

A favor. Gin took a sharp breath. She'd been this quick? Even with that vexed woman's irritating intelligence, Gin had been expecting at least one more week before she took the bait. Vermouth had been more perceptive. Normally she'd take his fleeting comments in stride, shrugging them off like they didn't matter. But knowledge of them was proof enough to him that something was amiss. She was watching him, and he didn't know why. His breathing quickened. "Sano and Takemura."

"You predict things rather well. Everything happened exactly as you told me it would."

"How convenient."

He was referring to the meeting Gin had called a few weeks earlier, a little while after Vermouth had begun tailing him. He had a hit for three computer designers, two of which were Sano and Takemura. He and the boss had worked out a deal that he would kill one but leave the other two, and wait to see if Vermouth would make a move within three weeks. If she did, then there'd be a hit pulled. If she didn't, the hit would still be pulled. Sano and Takemura had no information that Gin was in a massive crime syndicate, and were under the impression he was merely in a small gang. The boss would lose absolutely nothing, except for the tiniest amount of efficiency. And he had agreed, seemingly curious to see how events with his dear Vermouth would turn out, if they did at all.

And they did.

"You're wonderful at baiting, Agent Gin...perhaps a promotion is in order?" The boss sounded oddly smug, and Gin could almost hear the static words coming through a smirk. "The file will be delivered tomorrow morning. Expect another call then."

Another call. Unusual. What had to wait until tomorrow to be said? There were too many questions here, and Gin rubbed his temples, annoyance creeping on as the sun further set, its rays darkening over the room. Gin sighed. The scarlet was distilling his thoughts. "I'll be on."

But the Boss didn't hang up."Vermouth said some other interesting things to me as well, about you."

Gin fingered the rim of his sake, fast on thought. "Like what?"

"Ah. That's for me to know and you to find out." The phone clicked off.

Gin clenched the phone before tossing it on the bed. He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. There was a dangerous game going on. He wasn't the only one baiting others - Boss was as well. Obviously, the hidden man needed some kind of motive to have even agreed to listen to Gin's request.

And Vermouth. Gin would admit that she was far from stupid, but she seemed to be leading herself along. There was a game in play, but she was the toy in both Gin and Boss's plans. Her own motives were completely obscured, though Gin could tell it somehow involved him. He bristled at the thought. Their games were all different - he knew that - but there was something similar between all the players of the stage.

Temptation.

It was a silent watch to see who would bite into the apple's flesh first.

* * *

_**A/N:** So it turns out that Gin already knew about what Vermouth was doing. Keep reading for more twists and turns! I'm afraid Vodka becomes a small stock character, but that's because I need Scotch and Cognac for something a bit bigger. 8D  
_


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